Saint in New York by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page B

who
had come in. On the whole, Fernack conformed closely enough to the
pattern in his mind of what a New York police inspector was likely to
be; but the reality went a little beyond that. Simon liked the belligerent
honesty of the frosted grey eyes, the strength and courage of the iron jaw.
He realized that, what ever else Fernack might be, a good or bad
detective, he fell straight and clean-cut into the narrow outline of that
rarest thing in a country of corrupted law—a square dick. There were qualities
in that mountain of toughened flesh that Simon Tem plar could have appreciated at any time;
and he smiled at the man with an unaffected friendliness which he never
expected to see returned.
    “What ho, Inspector,” he murmured
affably. “You disap point me. I was hoping to be
recognized.”
    Fernack’s eyes hardened in perplexity as he
studied the Saint’s tanned features. He shook his head.
    “I seem to know your face, but I’m
damned if I can place you.”
    “Maybe it was a bad photograph,” conceded the Saint reg retfully. “Those photographs usually are. All
the same, seeing it was only this
afternoon that you were handing out copies of it to the reporters —— ”
    Illumination hit Fernack like a blow.
    His eyes flamed wide, and his jaw closed with
a snap as he took three long strides across the room.
    “By God—it’s the Saint!”
    “Himself. I didn’t know you were a pal of Algernon’s, but since you arrived I thought I might as well
stay.”
    Fernack’s shoulders were hunched, his
pugnacious chin. jutting dangerously. In that instant shock of surprise, he
had not paused to wonder why the Saint should be offering himself like an
eager victim.
    “I want you, young fellow,” he
grated.
    He lunged forward, with his hand diving for
his hip.
    And then he pulled up short, a yard from the
chair. His hand was poised in the air, barely two inches from the
butt of his gun, but it made no attempt to travel further. The Saint did not
seem to have moved, and his free foot was still swing ing gently back and forth; but somehow the
blue-black shape of an automatic had come into his right hand, and the round black snout of it was aimed accurately into the
detective’s breastbone.
    “I’m sorry,” said the Saint; and he
meant it. “I hate being arrested, as you should have gathered from my
biography. It’s just one of those things that doesn’t happen. My dear
chap, you didn’t really think I stayed on so you could take me home with you
as a souvenir!”
    Fernack glared at the gun speechlessly for a
moment and shifted his gaze back to the Saint For a moment Simon was
afraid—with a chin like that, it was an even chance that the detective might not be stopped;
and Simon would have hated to shoot. But
Fernack was not foolhardy. He had been bred and reared in a world where
foolhardiness went down under an
elemental law of the survival of the wisest; and Fernack faced facts. At that range the Saint could not
miss, and the honour of the New York
police would gain a purely temporary glow
from the heroic suicide of an inspector.
    Fernack grunted and straightened up with a
shrug.
    “What the hell is this?” he
repeated.
    “Just a social evening. Sit down and get
the spirit of the party.
Maybe you know some smoke-room stories, too.”
    Fernack pulled out a chair and sat down
facing the Saint. After the first stupefaction of surprise was gone he accepted the situation with homely matter-of-factness. Since the initia tive had
been temporarily taken out of his hands, he could do no harm by
listening.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked;
and there was the be ginning of a grim respect in his voice.
    Simon swung his gun around towards Nather and
waved the judge
back to his swivel chair.
    “I might ask the same question,” he
remarked.
    Fernack glanced at the judge thoughtfully;
and Simon’s quick eyes caught the distaste in his gaze, and realized
that Nather saw it, too.
    “You do your own asking,” Fernack